


Fly by Knight

by sybilius



Series: a hustler, a spy, and a professional assassin walk into a bar [2]
Category: MacGyver (TV 1985)
Genre: Alcohol, Amnesia, Assassins & Hitmen, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Bad dealing with feelings, Candid and Aimless discussion of suicide, Drama Queen Murdoc, Dramatic rivals to awkward lovers to ???lovers what the fuck????? to actually being fucking adults, Gay Bar, M/M, Messy Kisses, Multi, Murdoc's Hoarder Apartment, Polyamorous Negotiations, Pre-Slash, Slash, Strictly Business AU, The fact that it's a gay bar is incidental really, Villains, bad decision making, cute kisses, fluff ending, meaningfully provided hot liquids, murdoc is a full on disaster tbh, nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: There's one or two things in Murdoc's MO that don't add up.Maybe even to him.*Canon divergence to Strictly Business, on the theme of "Five times Murdoc hid from what he wanted, and one time he didn't".





	1. That what you call business?

**Author's Note:**

> This was a stupid idea that got ahold of me when I saw Strictly Business. I've in theory got more planned, but who knows if I will write it. See this satisfies removing the two things I found annoying about the episode:
> 
> \- child acting and silly intuition with a child
> 
> -Murdoc pulling the "u won't do it" trope, which granted, DOES mean more now that it's MacGyver specifically but did make me go "but will u ever do it, Murdoc you big drama queen" 
> 
> (-needs more gay) 
> 
> (Ok that's three)
> 
> If you wanted any of those things from that ep, you've come to the right place. Fair warning I have seen one (1) episode of MacGyver and read a few wikis and scripts. No guarantee of this being all that IC, I just liked the premise :)

Murdoc is most in his element amidst controlled chaos. Explosions, shrapnel flying to high heaven, sweeping infernos. Bodies and bones tumbling across so many miles of splintered rock, no, it's not enough for it just to be a gun-- it has to be every inch an elegant catastrophe with the slimmest possible chance that it won't end in corpses and flames.

Nothing is on fire in this room, and for that reason, near-everything is.

“Why are you doing this?” the doe-eyed husk who is  _ not  _ MacGyver asks, “Who are you? Come on, at least tell me who I am!”

Now what purpose would that serve, Murdoc wonders, if you're about to die? Such a waste, it was, an utter waste that it came down to something this simple. Just a camera and a gun in this travesty of a cabin, and the aftershock of something far more grand. Nothing like he'd hoped.

“You know, I'd love to stand around and chat about old times, but I don't want to be here when the police arrive,” he crosses by the camera, unable to tell if the puppet on the bed even knows what a police officer is. That's laughable. Should be.

“Do you know what I mean? So, why don't you say your prayers now? That is, of course, if you can remember any,” he positions himself by the camera. Well then, this is no different than any other kill he's made. So much the better. No history, no hesitations, no debts--

“I-- the girl and her mom, what did you do with them?”

Now there's a question that would have come from his would-be nemesis. Open and honest, the do-gooder in him goes deeper than memory. Down to the blood that's dried on the wound on his face.

“Oh, they're quite safe, if you must know. I-- my employers have no interest in them.”

"Where? How?"

He's hedging for time now, as many Murdoc has killed have done. Murdoc glares, paces across the crevices of the wooden floor. But if he could just  _ see _ that it was MacGyver himself in there somewhere…

… that he hasn't already killed him...

“So you're doing this for someone who wants me dead-- god, I -- what do they want me for, tell me that?” not-MacGyver is pleading now, which should be a more satisfying look on him than it is.

“What wouldn't anyone want you for?” Murdoc drops his hand from the camera, approaching his nemesis-- not his nemesis-- step by slow step with a hand on his gun, “You’ve managed to slip out of the jaws of death so many times. Even now you must remember you've survived a crash, don't you? That itself takes considerable skill. You are -- the well placed screwdriver in an otherwise flawless set of machinery. So innocuous looking, yet so beautifully devastating.”

The man on the bed squints, his brow furrowing, “...You make that sound like a compliment.”

“Take it as you will, MacGyver. It matters not to what I'm about to do--” Murdoc realizes belatedly, bitterly, that he's slipped in the man's true name. He steals a glance back, half-hoping it made a difference. But the stranger on the bed has nearly the same furrowed brow as before.

“Wait-- did you-- there was a dinner, wasn't there?”

Murdoc freezes. Not-MavGyver has grabbed his  _ wrist _ , of all things, just loosely. So  _ why _ isn't he responding, backhanding him across that wound he'd left, pulling out his gun and just being done with this--

“Candles, and you told me...we were even, that didn't make sense,” he murmurs.

“Yes. I explained  _ everything _ then, but I do hate repeating myself,”  _ why  _ isn't he pulling away, for the love of all things vicious and bright.

“It was -- it was elegant. Nice."

Nice? Murdoc blinks, the color rising to his cheeks. Well, it  _ was _ nice, that much he was sure of when he went to the trouble of acquiring all the parts, cooking in MacGyver's pathetic little kitchen. But  _ MacGyver  _ wasn't supposed to say that, he was  _ supposed  _ to make an asinine comment about games, glare so helplessly at Murdoc's laughter.

But if this was so damn off-script, why,  _ why _ was Murdoc flattered by the comment?

Murdoc glances down to not-MacGyver, who is eyeing him with an element of the near-opportunistic.

Oh, of course, Murdoc thinks bitterly, pulling his hand away with a sneer. Of course the desperate man would try any angle he could to survive this.

“I really did kill him, didn't I? Never knew MacGyver to be the kind to use this kind of tactic to survive," he stares pointedly at the floor, willing himself to reach for his gun. Caught out by an amateur spy move like this, straight from Sonia's playbook? And from an amnesiac --

"Now, how well do you think you know me, Murdoc?"

Fucking hell.

In that moment, three things happen. First, MacGyver moves with the unparalleled speed Murdoc has come to expect of him. Second, in fact, mere fractions of a second later, Murdoc fires the gun where MacGyver's head used to be. A fractionally calculated absence, he notes before he can stop himself.

Third. In the reverb of the gunshots, the approaching sound of sirens pricks at Murdoc's keen ears.

Murdoc reloads the camera almost on muscle memory, MacGyver scrambling to his feet, not running. Not making a move against him, the ruse is  _ over _ , why does he not take the small advantage he has?

Murdoc points the gun at him.

"You rather ought to run. I've convinced them that our positions are reversed and that you're the one they should be after."

"Well, are you going to stick around till they figure that out?"

"No, I suppose not," he lowers the weapon, half in a daze, "when did you-- remember, was it all an act?"

"When you said my name--" MacGyver tugs open the back door, gestures at Murdoc, "Still don't know what your game is, but you don't seem to have any skin in killing me for now. Come on."

Against seven well crafted layers of better judgment, protocol about enemies that he's already overridden for MacGyver's sake before-- he follows. Into the brush of damp leaves from whence they came, his boots crunching on the earth.

"What makes you so certain?" Murdoc ventures, after they're somewhat concealed by maple and pine.

"What, besides the fact that you failed to kill me twice, just now? That what you call business?" MacGyver watches the police file towards the cabin, takes a few steps deeper in the woods, "No, if there's anything that rap on the head taught me, it's that you're getting something out of telling me to look over my shoulder that has nothing to do with HIT. So if you mind  _ explaining  _ that to-- oh, stay down!"

One of the younger officers is squinting stupidly into the woods, looking surreptitiously back and forth. Nothing to worry about, Murdoc is sure, not when they're less than a sprint to the vehicle he left safely hidden across from the wreck.

MacGyver is still watching him intently as the policeman pulls away from the group to relieve himself. MacGyver relaxes, not noticing Murdoc's careful steps behind him.

...not looking over his shoulder…

Murdoc runs, before he makes the altogether unfathomable decision not to. Pretends he doesn't hear the hiss of MacGyver's voice, but for certain he can hear the  _ hey! _ from the officer who has spotted him running. So much the better. There's no stopping him now.

Of all the traps he's left MacGyver to spring himself from, this hardly qualifies as difficult to get out of. Mere diplomacy, which the man has in spades. Charm, even.

Murdoc starts the car, spins the tires into action, pulls out on to the road just as MacGyver catches up to him.

Murdoc's thoughts race faster than his heartbeat as he fingers the gun in his hand.

Say something to let him know this changes nothing, he's still a target and no more -- scream his name into the dust of your  _ exeunt-- _

"Murdoc!"

He rolls down the window, just as MacGyver turns to the shout of the officers behind him.

Takes the shot.

Misses, as precisely as the situation demands, and rams the pedal to the floor before he can catch MacGyver's face when he looks back. 

  
  
  



	2. What is that, a spoon?

The place where a figure _was_ speaks volumes more, artistically speaking, than a corpse.

There's a question in each and every one of the photographs that Murdoc has cleared the clutter off his coffee table to lay out in a row. _Who_ was the subject?

Of course, the answer is the same for all of them.

His eyes catch on the blur of blonde hair against an unfocused backdrop of wood. The most recent. He should rearrange the photographs chronologically. He checks his watch, stacking the photographs neatly into their envelope. Soon, either he'd return to collect the absent photograph from the hidden camera in the death trap MacGyver had no doubt handily unraveled. Or --

His thoughts are interrupted by a firm, yet gentle knock on the door. He starts, fumbling quietly for the handgun he'd carelessly tossed under the table.

His pulse quickens as he strides over discarded disguises to get to the door. Surely not even _MacGyver_ would catch on to the microscopic hint he left as to his whereabouts.

He puts his eye to the spyhole on the door. Blonde hair, mouth set in a firm line. Alone or -- seems it. In short, the most Murdoc could have possibly hoped for. More, even.

He trains his gun at the place where MacGyver's head waits behind the door, a patently ridiculous notion, given his escape options, but MacGyver is _here_ and Murdoc cannot fathom why this has gone precisely as expected.

"Ech. What am I even doing?" MacGyver mumbles to himself behind the door. The kinship Murdoc feels towards that sentiment very nearly stays his hand.

Another knock.

"What do you want?" Murdoc doesn't lower the gun.

"You tell me that?"

"Tell you what _you_ want? A fascinating proposition, MacGyver, but despite my talents I am not a mind reader."

"Okay. I want you to let me in."

Murdoc keeps the gun where it is, tugs the door open a crack with his left hand. MacGyver frowns at it.

"Is that necessary?"

"Precautions. I don't know you didn't bring all of Phoenix with you."

"Just me."

There's another embarrassing beat, where Murdoc stares, knowing full well that MacGyver is telling the truth. Then MacGyver raises his eyebrow near tantalizingly, and Murdoc has to hide his flinch to let him inside.

Yes, this was. Very much outside of expectations. But then, was he really hoping for a dramatic standoff with Phoenix?

"Actually. Not coming in unless you put the gun away."

"What on _earth_ makes you think that I want to let you in my home?"

MacGyver throws up his hands, "Look, last time you left a call to an address after messing with my _house_ you wanted my help."

Murdoc's frown deepens. The call had been on a pay phone in the lobby, the hockey rink containing a rather impressive array of timed explosives. Timed, rather, for MacGyver's early arrival to the bizarre practice.

Certainly it occurred to him leaving the phone hanging would be a clue. A subtle one.

But the interpretation, that he needed _help_ somehow was far too like MacGyver.

"Ashton is fine, to my knowledge."

"Knew that, too. I keep tabs on her."

"To have leverage on me?"

"What? No! Because she seems like a good person, and having good people close to you..." MacGyver breaks off, looking uncomfortable. Really, there was only so long Murdoc could reasonably keep up holding a gun in this hallway without suspicion. His neighbors were of the irritatingly curious sort.

"...well, you misinterpreted."

"You don't want to let me in?"

"I--" Murdoc stopped, unable to follow through with the denial. Pointless, wouldn't it be? Now that he was here?

"Look. I still want answers. But not with a gun at my face. Leave it at the door."

"Fine," Murdoc unloads the Beretta with a flourish, as a show of good faith, drops it on to a pile of clothing in the corner.

He gestures in a mockery of grandeur to his living room. A far cry from a well orchestrated symphony of murder. MacGyver frowns considerably at the chaotic mountain of books in a state of near-avalanche in the corner. He should be so lucky that there's a place on the settee for him.

"Wow," he studies the mess around the room with genuine surprise. On another person Murdoc would have detected disgust but -- MacGyver is polite, among many reasons why he makes a splendid nemesis.

"Is there something you wish to say, MacGyver?" Murdoc raised an eyebrow, watching MacGyver eye up the book titles.

"Part of me expected your house would be like that dinner you set out-- you were making a point about it."

"Yes, well. I _have_ a house like that, it's simply not this one," or had, rather. Best not to dwell on that, "May I offer you some tea?"

"Guess so."

MacGyver leans forward to look at the kitchen, the only pristine space in the house. When it gets too disorderly, Murdoc can hardly look at it, let alone make dinner. And starving is hardly conducive to building efficient death traps…

...for the man sitting on his settee, yes.

He busies himself with the kettle, tacitly selecting a gunpowder green tea for himself.

"Do you have a preference?"

"Just whatever you're having," MacGyver seems to have tired of mentally cataloguing his taste in literature, and is now tilting his head at the shape of the buried grand piano, "These used to be in a bigger house, didn't they?"

"Some of them. Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall."

MacGyver taps at the copy of _Measure for Measure_. Then gets up, leans against the counter across from Murdoc. The stove hums between them. It will take precisely seven minutes and forty seconds for it to boil.

Murdoc isn't prepared for that amount of conversation. All the clever repartee is prepared for scenes wherein MacGyver has assumed his usual role of attractively desperate would-be hero.

MacGyver clears his throat, when it's evident Murdoc isn't going to say anything, "You never gave me an answer for -- what it was I asked you, in the woods by the cabin."

"To be perfectly honest with you, I was happy to chalk up that lapse in your discretion to the head injury."

"What is it you're getting out of this?"

Murdoc hides with a blank and balmy smile the way the question makes his pulse jump several notches, "Suppose I said I was playing HIT for fools, to get back at them for trying to get to me."

"What, by going after me same as you've always done?"

"I wasn't _always_ so--" Murdoc cuts himself off before he adds _attached_ , or worse yet, _fond._ This comfortable setting is doing horrifying things to his defenses.

"You were saying?" MacGyver prompts, somewhere between weary and amused.

"Hesitant."

"Alright. I'll give you that," he frowns at Murdoc as if there's more he's expecting to see. Takes a slow step away from the counter, meeting Murdoc's gaze levelly. Watching for a reaction. Murdoc remembers a finger pressed to his wrist, his quick paced pulse giving him away so utterly, that MacGyver _knew_ and _saw_ that despite best intentions (worst, rather) -- there was some _affection_ tucked away in his hesitation.

...Murdoc can’t afford to let him have any more of that advantage.

He reaches fluidly behind him for the first thing that feels like it could be driven through a man’s chest, points it at MacGyver. MacGyver frowns in confusion. At least Murdoc’s hands are steady.

"What is that, a spoon?"

"Dear lord. That's a level of patheticness for a weapon I could even imagine you abiding by," Murdoc mutters, almost to himself. He drops it on to the tile, the resulting clatter making MacGyver flinch. That was something, made the situation feel a little more familiar. He takes a step closer, pulse pounding in his throat. He's not _afraid_ of MacGyver of all people.

Ought to demonstrate that.

"I do regret-- that the camera didn't catch that lovely mark across your face from the crash," Murdoc studies his cheekbones, half trance-like, "I'm unsure if I'm relieved to see it healed, or disappointed it didn't leave a more lasting mark."

He traces the line where he remembers it being, for the effect, of course, but the effects on him are so easily underestimated. It's as if MacGyver's skin is the conduit for lightning itself, roiling from the storm of Murdoc's skin.

The shock wave seems to be mutual, because MacGyver flinches away a moment later, face twisted with confusion. Murdoc leans back against the counter, the advantage his. He wishes it made him feel more steady.

"Not what you expected, I presume, MacGyver."

"No -- I. I thought it might be that, I just--"  his face twists, eyes downcast, "I just came here to make sure you didn't hurt anyone."

Murdoc's fingers clench. To think, the man would have the gall to think he could _change_ him--

"I really ought to kill you where you stand, just for that."

"What--"

"Get _out_ , get the hell fucking out _now,_ before my better judgement gets ahold of me, where the hell is that gun--" Murdoc attempts to push him out the kitchen, which is ineffective for several reasons; his height, MacGyver attempting to turn around, the persistent effect of the shape of his shoulders--

"Murdoc, listen!"

"Why on Earth would I-- "

The scene reverses, inverts, Murdoc’s back bumping hard against the counter and the full length of a warm body pressed against his, lips and tongue so messy Murdoc could almost laugh. He stops struggling, tries to reciprocate and nearly gets his lip bitten for his trouble. He pulls away, watching MacGyver's eyes flutter open with near heartbreaking naivete.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he's still near-damnably attractive. Or the opposite of damnation. Words are rather failing Murdoc at the moment.

MacGyver licks his lips, “Um--”

“Good god. I have no idea why I thought you’d be better at that.”

He winces, "Sorry, I, uh--"

“No, no --” he brings his hand to MacGyver’s cheek, watches his pupils dilate. Well, this _was_ rather a story MacGyver was telling himself, wasn’t it? That he’d just come to do some _good_.

Murdoc leans in, presses his lips carefully, insistent, oh yes and _that_ much is easier, when they're both unsurprised. MacGyver still kisses strangely, a surprisingly delectable violence hovering just below the surface.

It's far better than Murdoc had ever imagined. He wants it to swallow him whole, he _wants,_ he--

Murdoc pulls back, letting his lips drag on MacGyver's neck. The man shivers, and it's that easy to find a new role, in this little stage drama.

Temptress. He'd been tempted himself, by that role, many a time, but makeup and costume only go so far. He goes further, letting his breath brush at the sensitive shell of his rival's ear.

"So I'll ask you then, MacGyver. What were your intentions, truly, following my clues?"

"I--" MacGyver near stutters, then crushes Murdoc's mouth against his in lieu of answering the question. He tucks his fingers around the edges of his trousers, his touch sparking along Murdoc's hip, and he hadn't expected _this_ in the least, but..

...it fit with the role, did it not?

"No. Not here," Murdoc's chest pounds, but at least it's free from the damnable _need_.

"Hmm?" MacGyver has to be pushed lightly away from sucking a beautiful mark on to Murdoc's neck, that much he'll take for himself.

"If we're to do this -- once and _only once_ lovers, an inversion of what we _are_ , we do this someplace anonymous. The motel a few miles north of here, yes."

"So we're going to do this?"

 _He_ looks afraid now. But the role Murdoc has is not to reassure, but rather, to seduce. Possibly destroy. Murdoc brushes the tousled hair from MacGyver's face, which seems to be reassuring nonetheless.

"No promises made. Simply this; if you appear at room seven an hour from now, then I will take that as your answer," the ringing in Murdoc's ears has faded, replaced by the screech of the kettle's whistle. He slips out of MacGyver's grip, lithe and untouchable. Ignoring the slight ache left by his absence, he takes the kettle off the element and pointedly pours a single mug of tea, leaving the other empty. Sips it from across the room, finally meeting MacGyver's confusion-filled brown eyes.

"And if I don't?"

"Then I will have your answer just the same-- I will promise you this: this has nothing to do with Phoenix, HIT, or any other element of our usual antagonism," the steel in Murdoc's voice surprises him. How long has it been, since retiring from HIT, that he's had anything to pursue with genuine fervor?

"Thought you said you weren't going to make promises."

Oh, now there's the man Murdoc's carefully crafted mystique has been crumbling around for years. Murdoc sets down the steaming cup of tea, jerking his head towards the door.

"One hour, MacGyver. Clock is ticking."

  
  



	3. Qualified as involved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are peak fucking awkward. They give my other otp, Blondeyes, a run for their money and kinda outpace them on self sabotage.

As it turns out, it was most certainly _not_ once and only once.

Thrice, Murdoc perhaps could have bided. There was an elegant sort of symmetry to that, easily ascribed meaning to.

The ninth time, though? Auspicious but absolutely excessive by any standard of what they were doing. And this was the fourth time they'd met immediately after one of their violent encounters of the usual variety.

Murdoc sits up slowly, MacGyver's chest still heaving next to him, sweat drying on their skin. What part of town was this motel in, this time? He hardly remembers.

Not for the first time, he wishes that he smoked, had picked that up before MacGyver would raise an eyebrow at it. Something to do with his hands, in this liminal time where they neither touched nor even looked each other in the eye.

Still, it was -- well, Murdoc couldn't pretend he wanted it to stop, any of it.

"Was Dalton able to repair his airplane?" Murdoc asks, belatedly from the encounter prior to this one. He remembers the delicious look of horror on MacGyver's face when the flamethrower had melted the propeller.

"Dunno."

Murdoc somehow doubts that. MacGyver slips off the creaking mattress, closing the bathroom door without a word.

Right. Conversation after these encounters wasn't exactly his strong suit.

Murdoc leans his head against the thin plaster walls, listening to the shower run. Why he asked about _Dalton_ of all people -- it can't have been the way MacGyver had thrown himself after the pilot, Murdoc had seen him pull such reckless heroics for many others, including his own sister.

Had there been a shift, in the anguished frustration that he'd yelled Murdoc's name, whilst dangling from the cliffside? No, that much he imagined. Nothing has changed, in the way they interact outside of the confines of a hotel suite.

That isn’t what bothers him.

It was when MacGyver managed to lift both him and Dalton safe with the use of that ingenious pulley. He placed one careful hand on Dalton's bicep, looked him in the eye for more than a second's pause. Lips not moving, Murdoc could tell from the distance at which he studied them through his binoculars.

Then the moment passed, and MacGyver was making quick work of the remainder of his death trap.

Murdoc's bare feet meet the thin carpet, picking up his clothing strewn across the room. The gesture-- hands curling around his bicep, brown eyes caught with an intensity like uncut garnet-- on occasion, MacGyver had done the same to him, in that liminal space between the clumsy brutality of foreplay and the frantic heat of lovemaking.

Perhaps this meant MacGyver was sleeping with Dalton as well. Not that it _bothered_ him, per se, _increase of appetite does grow by what feeds it._

The door to the bathroom opens with a creak.

"Shower's yours," MacGyver doesn't meet his eyes then either, as delicious as he looks dripping and wrapped in a thin greying towel.

It would be just as well, Murdoc reflects as he steps under the lukewarm water, that MacGyver have affections elsewhere. Dalton or otherwise. The thought of making any kind of promises beyond this indecent facade…

...Murdoc turns the shower to colder, reminding himself to put that out of mind. They diverted enough from their roles as it was, at sufficient cost. He presses his forehead against the tile wall.

MacGyver is a passionate lover, for certain. Distinctly unpracticed, but a quick study. In short, everything he could have expected. But that is rather where his expectations seemed to begin and end, in this exchange of theirs.

Unlike his affable and moralizing personality as a rival, he becomes strange and taciturn as a lover. Willing, for certain, that much took very little effort. But Murdoc couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole scenario was rather constraining, to him.

Why then, Murdoc wonders as he buttons up his shirt, does he go through with it?

Murdoc shouldn’t be questioning it.

When he returns, MacGyver is as usual, sitting dressed on the edge of the thoroughly disordered bed. Murdoc takes the briefcase he came in with, unclasps it with precision and procures the floppy disc. As came most of his ideas, improvised into a masterstroke, he did end up deciding to run circles around HIT. To sweeten the deal, as it were, wear the high-heeled shoes of double agent with greater gravitas.

And, of course, there was the matter of HIT attempting to kill him. MacGyver was correct that revenge was the due course.

"What you came for," the bed creaks when he sits down next to Macgyver.

MacGyver winces, "You know I didn't come for that."

"No?”

“Not really,” he takes it nonetheless, tucking it into that well fitted leather jacket of his.

"Ah, so. Would you then qualify us as _involved_?" Murdoc rather didn't want to ask that question, so naturally, it slipped off his tongue.

"...not. Really."

"Excellent," Murdoc says softly, "it's best that you not belabour under such delusions. I should make it clear I don't give a damn if you're sleeping with anyone. Ours is not an arrangement as such."

Murdoc is a little bit surprised that much doesn't have the smooth taste of a lie. Even if the aftertaste is sour.

"Who...do you think I'm sleeping with?" there's the moralizing MacGyver that Murdoc has come to know.

"Dalton, naturally."

"What? I'm not sleeping with Jack," MacGyver turns beet red, near mumbles the man's name with a hiss. Yes, this rather hit a nerve.

"Whyever not? His pilot costuming may be naive, but he's attractive and as far as I can tell finds you as such--"

"Yeesh! Look, Jack likes women, goes after them all the time--" MacGyver loses the thread of his explanations so quickly, "Why would you even _say_ that?"

"You know a man can enjoy the company of both men and women--"

"Don't be patronizing--"

"I could probably find you evidence of Jack Dalton's preferences with much greater ease than continuing to spy on HIT--"

"Well I don't want you to do that!" MacGyver is yelling now.

Huh. It's nice to see something of the man that usually antagonizes him with such blithe skill. Murdoc raises an eyebrow, and then as soon as it came, all the fight goes out of MacGyver. He clasps his hands together tight, staring at the floor.

"It doesn't matter. I can't -- with Jack, he's my best friend."

"...I see."

It would make sense, Murdoc reflects, if he could muster any anger towards that statement. After all, he shouldn't consider himself anyone's proxy, not especially a loud mouthed pilot who can't be bothered to get himself to a death trap on time…

...as it is, all he manages to feel is that same hollow kinship when MacGyver turned up at his door close to a month prior.

"I should go. I'll--"

"Wait for my call. Yes."

And that kinship, of course, doesn't stop Murdoc from letting MacGyver walk out the door without another word.

 


	4. The undiscovered country

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what if you try to kill your lover/nemesis constantly you might actually get close to succeeding then what??  
> then what??
> 
> content warning for a weirdly candid and aimless discussion of suicide. I don't really think of either of them as that suicidal but like??? their jobs?? kinda crazy??

“MacGyver!” 

Murdoc’s yell cuts through the choking smoke, bounces back as a mocking echo as he runs through the abandoned shell of the parking garage. The sky is roiling with grey clouds, everything difficult to see details in. Where is he?

It was too close, he hadn't gotten far enough out from the blast radius. The flash from his camera had caught MacGyver's body being tossed to the ground like a ragdoll. 

"MacGyver!"

He spots that brown jacket finally, amidst the remains of a wall. The chunks of concrete tumble under Murdoc's frantic footfalls. He kneels clumsily, one shaking hand on his neck. MacGyver is still breathing. Murdoc turns his lover's face over, checking his body for damage. The rain starts, small drops spattering on the desolate rock. 

Murdoc would have at one point thought the sight of MacGyver obscured by the shrapnel of his own death trap would have brought him great joy. 

As it is, the relief in his throat is choking, when he finds no visible damage. 

This has gone too far, he thinks, grunting as he heaves MacGyver's unconscious body on to his shoulder. Blessedly, it takes too much effort to drag him to Murdoc's car, for Murdoc to think much about how this must look. He glances over to the loll of MacGyvers head as he fumbles to start the car. Should he recline the seat? Try and wake him? 

The car's engine roars, leaving the shell-hole of their encounter to vanish in the distance. The rain has gotten worse. There’s no one on the road, not this far out of town. The wipers screech back and forth, a useless rhythm. 

What if, Murdoc thinks as he presses the gas pedal harder, what if MacGyver's memory is affected again? What if he's forgotten who Murdoc is? Or forgotten that he'd taken on half a reason not to hate him-- 

\-- no, that is certainly a dangerous thought. Murdoc is with him  _ because  _ of the hatred. Nothing more. 

His hands slip on the wheel, uncharacteristically sweaty. He rubs them on his pants frantically, then leans over to place a finger on MacGyver's neck. Still a pulse, of course. 

He couldn't possibly  _ die _ from anything  _ Murdoc  _ ever did. 

"Murdoc?" MacGyver mumbles, his brown eyes blinking open. The sound of his name sets a thrill of fear and relief through Murdoc's fingertips. 

"Y-yes?" good god, that stutter. He bites his tongue hard, trying to think of a smooth way to state that they were on their way to where he'd planned they meet in any case, nothing out of the ordinary.

"...ow," MacGyver's eyes scrunch shut, shifting his left arm. 

"Yes, well. Nothing's bleeding," he says it almost to himself. It's all quite in order, nothing out of place-- 

"Think something might be broken, though," he prods the middle of the arm doubtfully, his face twisting with pain, "We, um. You dropping me at a hospital?" 

"We're going to the same place as planned," Murdoc's voice sounds distant even to him. MacGyver couldn't be  _ hurt,  _ he -- 

\-- he isn't prepared for that, god damn him. 

"Was that in your  _ plan _ , getting me half blown up?" 

"No," Murdoc manages through gritted teeth. Lies. His fingers are slipping on the wheel, this is too fast, to be driving in this rain. It’s become a torrent now, battering hard against the flash of the windshield. 

"Thought you'd be happy that you finally got me," it’s lazy bait, is what it is, MacGyver grimacing through the shift of his arm, what the hell is he playing at? Murdoc presses the gas harder, if nothing else to see if it will rattle MacGyver. The man is irritatingly cool, despite the fact that he’s just been pulled out of a pile of rubble. He could have easily been left for dead. 

"That should have been an easy trap to get out of,” his voice climbs in pitch against the battering of rain, “For God's sake, if you just carried a  _ gun _ , you could have shot off the trigger at a much greater distance--"

"Well, you carry a gun-- hell, why go to the trouble, for once, why not just shoot me?"

Murdoc hits the brake hard before he can even  _ think _ , his neck snapping back so fast it very nearly  _ hurts _ \-- 

\-- nowhere near as much as the thought of  _ shooting _ him, for christ’s sake. The rain retreats to a low patter, now that he’s not driving straight into it. Breathing, he still needs to -- breathe. He can feel MacGyver’s eyes on him, no doubt full of guileless concern. 

"You know I can't do that," he manages, forcing out the breaths, staring at the steering wheel. 

The rain floods the silence with such weight.

"I -- I know," MacGyver says quietly. 

Murdoc has half a mind to open the door, run out into the nothingness of the acres of forest beside them. But then, either MacGyver will outrun him as he knows he can, or he will hurt himself trying. 

"Do you. Do you  _ want  _ to go to the hospital?" Murdoc begins. 

MacGyver is studying him with such  _ worry,  _ it's very near impossible to look at, "Not yet. I'll take a look at it myself, sleep for a bit. I  _ mean  _ sleep, I --"

"Yes. I know," they're on repeat now. Murdoc tries to start the car again, the hard stop having stalled it out. It takes a moment of grinding, trying the key. MacGyver says nothing. 

He shifts the car into gear, taking them through the quiet to the Pine Lodge on the outside of town. Leaves the keys in the car, pays for the room and when he comes back, MacGyver is still there, frowning at his swelling left arm. 

"Could do with some ice." 

"Room twelve," Murdoc says faintly, passing him the room key. Then he stalks off wordlessly to get the ice, the rain soaking through his black jacket. 

The bag of ice feels heavy in his hand, the cold radiating up to his fingertips. When he opens the door, MacGyver has removed his shirt, a length of duct tape lying on the bed and a towel from the bathroom he's trying to run that ridiculous pen knife through, chop into strips. 

A complex mess of emotions wells up in Murdoc's chest. He takes the towel from MacGyver wordlessly, using his own knife to complete the tear. MacGyver packs the bag of ice around his arm, studying him with a frown. 

"Hey, I'm sorry I, uhm-- said that, in the car. Don't actually want you to shoot me. Or anyone, really, but that's -- not what I come here for either."

Murdoc opens his suitcase, determinedly ignoring the comment. What is there to say? He fishes out a bottle of ibuprofen, passes it to MacGyver without a word. To his surprise, MacGyver takes two after only glancing at the bottle. 

Time was, he'd have questioned if there was a unique mixture of cyanide in those. 

Murdoc leans against the creaky paneling, reaching for indifference. 

"I just -- if you were worried about me, thinking about death, you don't need to."

“Oh, that the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd country from whose bourne No traveller returns, puzzles the will,” yes. Words not his own, theatre. That’s calming, “Everyone thinks about death, MacGyver."

"I guess so. Not often. Not about -- about killing yourself," he presses carefully. There's a question for that, a question about Murdoc's abominable behavior in the car. 

There are no answers. 

Murdoc scoffs, finding something to grasp on to at last, "Of course they do. Us more than most, given the regular confrontations we have with the spectre of death."

"Suicidal, just part of the HIT job description, is it?"

If MacGyver expects that word to provoke reaction in him -- well, currently Murdoc is beyond reaction. 

"Naturally. I'd expect the same of Phoenix.”

"You're pretty good at not dying," MacGyver says it with pity, rather than admiration. Murdoc  _ should  _ want to laugh in his face for that. 

"I thwart my intentions in all kinds of ways, MacGyver. Case in point," it rather wasn’t true, was it? That he’d completely and utterly failed, on all possible dimensions, in his efforts to kill MacGyver? There wasn’t anything in pretending anymore, it was all--

"That's not-- Something you’re after, though, is it?" 

"Killing you? I thought I made that clear --" 

"Dying." 

Two syllables. What a question, Murdoc frowns, running his hand over his face. Calm, at last, since MacGyver was rather fixating on some perceived fault of  _ his  _ rather than anything to do with his behavior towards the man himself. 

"You're. Thinking about that awfully hard." 

"It's not the kind of question I ask myself a lot. Death is rather in the job description," he could have added,  _ the same as Phoenix _ , but his tongue rather stuck on that. 

"Well. I don't want that."

"Yourself, to die? I should genuinely hope not," Murdoc could admit to himself there was absolutely no sense in denying that, now. 

"You to die. Never have." 

Oh. Well that he hardly expected to hear. 

"You don't want anyone to die," Murdoc mutters, almost mockingly. 

"Yeah. That's true," even MacGyver won’t acknowledge any sentiment in that. As he shouldn’t.

"Anyways. What I want right now is rest, and. Be honest with you, you look like you could use that too," MacGyver jerks his head to the bed, somewhere between his impenetrable distance following sex, his affable opposition as a nemesis, and -- something entirely different. 

Murdoc stares only half a minute, then -- follows. Joins him, in the bed, they’d never  _ slept _ together in any literal sense, of course, before...now. Before he can convince himself not to, he nestles his head on to MacGyver’s right shoulder, and -- his lover shifts his arm around him, his eyes fluttering shut, his chin tucked on Murdoc’s head. 

After all he’d just put him through -- and there they were. Fresh off the most abstracted conversation about death that Murdoc had in years, with MacGyver’s breath evening out safe and gentle behind his ear. 

Is this really what this is to be? Shouldn’t they have resisted longer, raged harder, never come to anything resembling gentleness? Shouldn’t Murdoc have slipped poison in that bottle after all, lorded over his photograph and kept it as his only souvenir of a rather illustrious career? 

His eyelids droop. He’s forgotten the camera, he realizes. The rain would have ruined the film by now. Nothing for it, he supposes, getting it developed would rather sicken him. 

Good god, what ought he  _ do _ now?

Retirement was an incalculable bore, not to mention -- unsustainable, given Murdoc’s history with money. And with HIT now in tatters, the only trade he’s ever known is hardly an option, but rather. It’s the only thing he’s ever been good for. That sickening thrill of enjoyment, watching the life wink out of another person’s eyes. The theatre was just that -- a distraction. HIT approved, of course, despite its tendency to get in the way of the job rather than elevate it. But of course, all the more reason to lean into that...

...even despite such fervent thoughts, the light has changed when Murdoc's eyes next open, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains. Ah. 

And MacGyver, despite all history and whatever intentions behind his questioning eyes, still -- lying in wait beside him. He presses his lips white together. Leaving, yes -- he should go. And yet. To stay would mean something to MacGyver.

To leave would be causing him further ill. And that much is unacceptable, surprisingly. 

He tilts his head up, surveying the room. A kinder lover, he supposes, would make coffee. Murdoc rather favours tea, but the meager machine in the corner is what they have. He shuffles from MacGyver's embrace, the man still fast asleep. How he can sleep so peacefully with a broken arm is rather beyond Murdoc.  For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.. . 

He fills the coffee maker with the ashy grounds, starting it up with a frown. Where they would go next-- where  _ he  _ would, seeing as directing his talents at killing MacGyver seemed off the table, and that HIT was crumbling from the inside out...

...well perhaps the man himself would have some  _ ideas _ .

The coffee maker grumbles, almost in unison with MacGyver mumbling gently. Murdoc starts a little, but the man seems yet still wrapped in dreams. He studies MacGyver’s face, a smile almost forming on his face--

“Jack, you -- not again, I--” his voice dies off, and Murdoc’s smile with it. 

To leave. Would rather be doing the man a favour, would it not? Seeing as Murdoc nothing but a substitute, a proxy -- a shade, rather...

...he’s out the door, the road burning up behind him before he can even finish that thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sidenotes:
> 
> \- MacGyver MAY be canon not in to taking painkillers, but I personally find the flavor of toxic masculinity that insists on gritting their teeth through everything to be anti-MacGyver, so I gave him this without checking to see if there was canon contradiction. If I contradict canon on that, so be it. Ibuprofen is good and being in pain because of toughness is silly. 
> 
> \- Jack, I am headcanoning here, likes coffee. Take that as you will. 
> 
> -idk maybe Murdoc is a little suicidal, he won't tell me. I don't think he'd call it that though. he's just you know, professional disaster man
> 
> thoughts, comments are always appreciated :) <3


	5. A taste for crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has gotta be some of the most fun messy goofy trope-ass bullshit I've written in a while. 
> 
> Content warning for alcohol though anything that happens romantic/sexually is afield of that. 
> 
> Things going to get cute real fast. They're already pretty damn cute.

It took a few weeks to decide what ought to be done.  


Two weeks without keeping a death trap in back of mind and he was reminded of why his retirement was so disastrous. Ever since he'd been on his own, the only thing standing between Ashton and a life on the streets or of crime she never had the temperament for -- he'd always had a hit job to keep himself busy.  


He discards the pen he's been chewing to the coffee table, immediately losing track of it amidst the books and boxes strewn on its surface. The absence of activity has done little to improve living conditions. At least his kitchen remains intact. He hasn't felt much like eating.  


Today, he dresses in the same sleek black of one of HIT's jobs.  


Today, he'll find Jack Dalton, let him know what MacGyver ought to have months ago. Instead of turning up on Murdoc's doorstep.  


He takes a taxi to the murky rented hangar masquerading as Dalton Air. Skulks about the edges of the entrance, feeling distinctly naked without a well structured plan and more than one gun. He’s got the one weapon, at least. The Beretta that MacGyver had insisted he leave behind.  


He can hear Dalton’s bombastic voice echoing through the hangar, the rumble of some kind of engine. How best to approach? He’s never  _ met _ Dalton in any capacity, but he can’t help but expect Phoenix would have given the man some warning off. Sneak up on him? Pull him into a broom closet?

The source of the engine reveals itself neatly, in the form of a small beat-up motorcycle, with one helmeted pilot picking up speed. He zips out of the hangar and on to the darkening road, the door closing behind him.  


Goddamn it, Murdoc frowns. This is why such schemes ought to involve meticulous planning and at least a week of trailing the target.  


Murdoc hastens after his taxi, still idling luckily for him.  


“You forget something man?” the driver pops the bubble she’s blowing in her gum.  


“Follow that motorcycle!” he closes the passenger door hard, wondering if he’ll have to reach for his gun. 

“Well, all right,” the woman smiles out of the corner of her mouth, hits the gas. Huh. Murdoc expected her to put up more of a fight.  


“What are you, a PI? Last guy who got me to do that was one of those,” she says, chewing voraciously.  


“Not exactly,” Murdoc leans out the window. The woman clicks her tongue, but keeps driving.  Really, there isn’t much to worry about. Dalton’s motorcycle is rather slow.  


“You know, I knew a man who became a spy doing exactly this,” Murdoc murmurs, sitting back to watch the evening fly past the window.  


“You’re not serious -- who’s it we’re following? Or is that ‘classified’?”  


“It...could be," Murdoc pointedly sets his gun on his lap, wondering if Thorton did the same to MacGyver.

She woops and laughs, "Alright, alright, I'll getcha where he's going. You better be paying me, though."

“You should count yourself lucky I’m not in a killing mood,” he mutters with very little venom behind it. She laughs at that too, rather impossible to rattle. Murdoc’s eyes wander to the name on her license,  _ Hope Waylon _ . Possibly someone useful to know.  


She does drive well, to the east end of town where the neon lights sizzle in the eyes.  And Murdoc  _ does _ pay her, not looking for trouble at a time like this. When he spots the bar Dalton is ducking into he very nearly does a double take.  


_ El Mocambo _ , covertly known as the right place for men looking for male company. Ever so fitting.  


Murdoc hadn’t expected his threat to find evidence of Dalton’s preferences to be so easy to make good on (not that he was intending that, tonight). But there the man was, nursing a tequila and casting furtive glances at the flash of brightly-clad male bodies on the dance floor.  


Probably best to start with politeness. He takes a seat on the creaky adjacent bar stool.  


"Whiskey, neat. And--" he glances to Dalton carefully. The man gives him a comedic half smile, no recognition, "Buy you a drink?"  


"Oh! Sure, might as well with another tequila," he downs the rest of his glass, full of undisguised delight.  


Murdoc has to wonder-- beyond the shock, will Dalton be happy, or disappointed to learn this? He’s studying Murdoc with an appraising grin, and Murdoc belatedly realizes this particular strategy of introducing himself may have been...misleading.  


"So, ta-- well, dark and handsome," Dalton smiles sheepishly out of the corner of his mouth, "you hoping to do some dancing tonight? Cause--"

"...I'm not here to proposition you, Dalton."

"Jack," the man grins, sticking out his hand. Murdoc stares.  


"Hey, hold on a minute. How did you know my name?"  


"I am Murdoc," he articulates carefully. Dalton's brow furrows in confusion. Now this is just rather frustrating. He'd expected Phoenix to at least have  _ mentioned  _ him.  


"We met? I'd think I'd remember, pretty face like yours --"  


"I'm MacGyver's nemesis!"  


The man's eyes bug out, as he coughs on the drink he was about to take a smooth sip of. As he continues to cough Murdoc suppresses an absurd instinct to pat him on the back.  


"...Murdoc...as in bazooka guy? The one who blew up my cab? And my bed to boot?"  


"I suppose, the very same."  


"Jeez, you're here to kill a man and you buy him a drink first? Is it okay if I finish it? No wait, is it poisoned? You're gonna kill me, in this crappy bar?"

"Dalton. I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to give you some information."

"Oh. Well in that case you might as well call me Jack," the grin falls back on his pinked cheeks. Murdoc is regretting buying him that drink-- the man may yet be too inebriated to comprehend the gravity of the situation, if he's so prepared to sit back and let a murderer say his piece. Listen to many, speak to a few, Murdoc thinks wryly.

"It is concerning MacGyver."

"Heck, is that why Mac is all tied up with that broken arm? He wouldn't tell me, been cagey about it all week-- figures it would be spy stuff-- wait, are you one of the good guys now? I thought you were dead-- or dead after being one of the good guys, Mac said something funny about a blonde a few months back..."

That would be Ashton, Murdoc figures. He purses his lips, halfway between amused and irritated by Dalton's aimless prattle.  


"Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated,"  


"Haha, now where have I heard that before..."

Mark Twain, or a paraphrase of, Murdoc almost answers. He sucks in the pleasantries and keeps to business.  


"Reports of being no longer villainous...well should it ever come up, you can tell MacGyver I've resolved to antagonize him no further," that much was easier to say aloud than he'd ever imagined. Perhaps there was something in having little to lose, "What I thought you ought to know, is that he's in love with you."  


Saying that aloud, for Murdoc-- is pain and relief both. Dalton, on the other hand, has inhaled part of his drink again, sputters all over the counter. The bartender raises an eyebrow at both of them when he comes to mop it up. Murdoc relents and claps Dalton on the back, in spite of his better judgement.

"Jeez, bazooka guy, I did  _ not  _ expect you to say that. I need another drink for this."  


"I'll second that," Murdoc mutters, gesturing to the bartender. They both aimlessly order the same. It's been a while since Murdoc has imbibed. He isn't sure if it's that or Dalton's lackadaisical attitude making this far more tolerable than he'd expected.

"How the heck would you know something like that, the man is-- well, as far as I know I've only ever seen him with a woman. Hm. Well not even  _ with  _ her, if you know what I mean. Most I've seen him give is a goodnight kiss. But then again, the man holds off on all kinds of worldly pleasures--"  


"Not that one-- at least, he then makes an exception for men."

"I just can't believe-- Mac--"

"Oh believe you me, I've had intimate evidence of MacGyver's sexual preferences," Murdoc states crisply. No need to have them both languishing in the same flavor of denial.  


Dalton goggles at him. Right. He hadn't meant to disclose his particular involvement.

"You've slept with Mac-- we are talking about the same Mac, right?"  


"Phoenix's own famed MacGyver," Murdoc says, trying to ignore the pang of absence that rears up in his throat. MacGyver was never his to claim. And he's never fooled himself otherwise, this is evidence of that much. That thought steadies him, as he gulps back the sear of the second whiskey.  


"You've slept with him and you're still here calling him  _ MacGyver-- _

"You know, I'd considered asking if he'd prefer the nickname, once, but it seemed too personal."

"Too personal? After you'd --?" Dalton gestures helplessly, "not that I'm jealous. Oh, who am I kidding, of course I am. Been after him for years, thought I didn't have a shot in hell."

"I am most certain that you do," it wasn’t even difficult, now, for Murdoc to say that. It simply rang true.

"Murdoc, let me tell you, I thought I knew everything there was to know about Mac-- I mean, when I met the guy--"

Dalton launches into a long winded, slightly slurred regarding the origins of that ill-fated taxi, which Murdoc takes with a degree of amusement. It’s easy then, to pass barbs and quips about frustrations with the man, now that any possibility of seeing him again is out of mind. By the time Dalton is on to the fourth anecdote, this one regarding an interrupted marriage proposal to MacGyver, and a child that could have been Jack’s own, Murdoc is slowly becoming aware of two things.  


First, that he's been listening to this man talk for hours, even traded an anecdote of his own. 

Second -- that Dalton is stalling for time.  


Murdoc had expected him to take the information and simply leave with it-- depart to proposition MacGyver, god knows that's what he would be doing.  


"Dalton--"

"Jack," if there was any doubt that Dalton was drunk before, by the way he leans in, knees knocking against Murdoc’s thigh--  he certainly is now.

"Jack-- not to sound pointed," a third thing Murdoc hadn't realized: he is himself drunk.  "but isn't it getting rather late?"  


"I-- where I'm staying. Mac, I," he groans, "M'stayin with him. I don't wanna -- deal with this tonight. Guess I'll just-- drive back to the hangar, sleep on the plane..."  


"Not driving-- no, that won't do. But do you have any more of those asinine anecdotes, about MacGyver--"

"Oh, I got a lifetime's worth of those--"

"Then you might as well stay with me tonight,” Murdoc gestures grandly, laying cash for their drinks on the table. Dalton blinks, but Murdoc is already heading for the door, perhaps quicker than he should, but he’s managed through worse head rushes. And the night air is bracing.  


"I thought you weren't prop--prop-- proposing?"  


"I am very much not, taxi, taxi," Murdoc gestures, nearly tumbling over as Dalton stumbles in to his arm. He remembers his apartment address without too much effort. Part of him is almost disappointed that it isn’t the same driver. But the drive passes quickly, and soon enough he’s fumbling for his keys outside of the apartment lobby, while Dalton leans on the door.  


“We’re not -- we probably shouldn’t...make love, y’know. Not that I don’t want to, with you, I do, but --”

“Dalton,” he manages grandly, having found the key, “Do shut up. You’re drunk.”

“You’re...drunk?” Dalton manages, then grins, follows him into the hallway.  


“We are not going to fuck,” he manages to say, soon as they’re inside the apartment, “Because you need. To sleep this off, and then go and tell MacGyver of -- your love for him. What is it said about love, heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- it is everything except what it is! ”

“You  _ are _ drunk, Mac would laugh in my face I said something like that."

MacGyver, Murdoc figures, would probably be able to tell him where he’d heard that before, but it’s rather escaping him at the moment. Not that it particularly matters, “But Jack, you’re going to make him happy, right? That’s. Very important. Very important.”

Dalton nods seriously and somewhat stupidly, Murdoc feels. He wants to laugh at -- everything, all of it really. Jack seems to have taken notice of where he is, is surveying the room’s mess with a whistle.  


“This is worse than my hangar on a bad day, you know? But eh, any port in a storm.”

Murdoc shrugs half-heartedly, gesturing to the bedroom in just as bad of a state. But there is a mattress on the floor that he had, at least, deigned to throw a blanket and some pillows over the night before. Jack tumbles on to it with abandon, throwing his hands behind his head.

“I close my eyes, I won’t have to worry about this -- this falling on me, will I?”

Murdoc blinks at the pile of disguises and shoes next to the bed, nudges it with his hand. He shrugs

 “I’ll clear off the couch -- oh, wait, Jack, don’t sleep yet,” he veers towards the kitchen, fills up two glasses of water. Manages to navigate through the maze clothing and books to where Jack’s eyes are already drifting shut on the bed, “Drink this?”

“Are you -- you, making sure I don’t get a hangover?” it takes Jack a few tries to get a grip on the glass, but he takes a generous gulp once he has it.

Murdoc drains his with ease, “Attention to detail is. Important. Remember that.”

He sets the glasses among the detritus next to them, half stumbles to get up when Jack tugs at his arm.

“Bed’s big enough for both of us and this blanket isn’t very warm,” he mumbles with a twitch of his eye.  


“Well. Alright,” it rather sounds like a terrible idea. A terribly good idea. A good and terrible--

"You sure you're the same Murdoc as -- that Murdoc?" Jack mumbles, eyes already closed.

Murdoc blinks, his eyes going out of focus. Thinks about the question until Jack’s breathing has evened out, then says to no one in particular.

“Not so sure.”

Blessedly, he manages to sleep before he has to think too long on that.  


When he wakes, it’s to the whistle of his own tea-kettle, the space on the bed empty next to him. He grumbles and squeezes his eyes shut, the pain spreading out over his forehead.  


Really, he should have eaten something. He tries to sit up and a small groan escapes him.  


"Murdoc? You got anything resembling coffee in here?"  


Dalton. Right, he'd brought Jack Dalton here to stay with him, why on Earth had that seemed like a good idea--  


"Hey," Dalton appears at the door, a steaming mug in his hand. Smells familiar. Bracing.  


"Figured this was your favorite? Gunpowder, huh, that's fitting," Jack sits down on the bed, passes the drink to Murdoc. He takes a sip and winces. Jack smiles sadly.  


"Hangover? Got some hair of the dog, if you want, in my jacket--"

"Briefcase-- by the door, there's aspirin in there--" Murdoc massages his temples. Really, it's not so bad. Just been a while since he'd put himself in such a predicament. Come to think of it, the last time may have been just before he'd made up his mind to work for HIT again...

"This it?" Jack throws himself down on the bed, offering the briefcase. Murdoc nods, unclasping it carefully. Jack gasps a little when he sees its contents; one gun, two knives, a grenade-- and a small first aid kit. When he swallows dry the few pills there are left he belatedly remembers the last person to take them.  


He sighs without meaning to, his whole body hunching in on itself. Jack frowns, and before Murdoc can fully react, the man has wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and -- goddamn it, Murdoc does not have the energy to push him off.  


He takes a shaky sip of the tea, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"  


"Being kind."

"You let me stay at your house, just cause I wanted to avoid Mac! I should be asking you that."

"Ah. Right," he had done that. Worse yet, he'd wanted to, still wants to have his company  


Jack adjusts his arm, fingers brushing the side of Murdoc's head gently. It's no wonder, Murdoc thinks slightly hysterically, that MacGyver has such affection for this man. He glances upward, cataloguing the particulars of Dalton's eyes, the slate grey underneath gentle browns. The man smiles like he's got a funny little secret …

...leans down and  _ kisses  _ Murdoc, damn him. Soft and open mouthed, too slow for Murdoc to plausibly pretend there was anything but want behind it,  _ dear god  _ his head is pounding and he's drowning in this.  


Murdoc pulls away, "Why did you do that?"

"Um. Not good?"

"No -- very," he leans in, pushing past the dim awareness that there is absolutely no reasonable script nor role for the motion, only rather-- desire. Jack's smile widens under his lips, his chuckle rumbling through Murdoc's frayed senses.  


"Wanted to. Figured you might--"

"You kissed better than MacGyver did the first time, I'll--" he trails off on that thought. God, what a horrible mistake they'd both made, what  _ would  _ this do to MacGyver.  


"I need to leave. You need to lea-- you need to go to him," Murdoc says sharply.  


"Yeah um. About that," Jack pulls back, misery on his face for the first time since Murdoc has met him. It suits him terribly, Murdoc has the urge to kiss him again simply to see that utterly guileless grin again.  


"Look, Murdoc-- mean, did you ever consider, if Mac was going to experiment, might be easier ways to do it than with the guy who tried to kill him a bunch of times?"  


"What are you saying?"

"Saying maybe Mac has got a taste for crazy, you say he loves me, sure-- I mean, maybe I'm not the one he wants."

"That's --" he laughs helplessly, drawing his knees closer. It's all slipping out from under him, everything he's said and done welling up in his chest like the mountainous mess beside him and --  


"Hey, hey don't freak out on me now. Not when you've got a grenade next to you, that's not a good idea--"

"I'm fine, really," just shaky, is all. Could do with his head hurting less. He takes another sip of tea.  


"You're hectic as a faulty rotor running on engine fumes."

"I am not  _ hectic, _ " Murdoc frowns, but doesn't pull out of Jack's grip either. He can finish his tea. That's acceptable. And dear lord, the man has kissed him on the forehead, of all things.  


"Yeah. This is a crazy idea. Probably one of my worst. Best. I don't know. You sobering up okay?" Jack squeezes his arm.  


"Rather. It's not-- really the alcohol I'm affected by. But the headache is passing, yes."  


"S'good then, cause we got somewhere to be," that stupid smile is starting to come back. Murdoc can't bring himself to resent it.  


"We, Dalton?"

"Come on, we were doing so well with Jack-- and yeah. You dragged me into this, so I'm dragging you with me. Come on," he takes Murdoc's hand, but it's still an offer. Murdoc grips back, and Jack pulls him upwards.  


"But where are  _ we _ going, then?"  


"Oh you know. Talk Mac round, of course."  


It's just as well for them getting out the door, that Jack happens to have a very firm grip. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes/shitposts:
> 
> -Hope Waylon is SO COOL and I have no idea where she's going to end up but damn that she popped up in this story.
> 
> -Lmfao that Murdoc thinks "MacGyver's nemesis" is a reasonable thing to cop to
> 
> -Jack is an adorable sweet potato. I love him. 
> 
> -Jack being annoyed that Murdoc calls him "Dalton" is a reference to deepandlovelydark's many fics on the subject, which I recommend :3 Second Chances verse!
> 
> -Anyone wants to play "spot the shakespeare line" with this fic is welcome to :3
> 
> Comments welcome as always!


	6. The right kind of trouble

The rap on the door to the houseboat rattles through the throb in Murdoc's temples. He squeezes his eyes shut, thankful at least for the bracing wind. Living by the seaside is a bit too bumpy and noisy for his tastes, but there is an effect he can respect. Dalton shifts on his toes, he's been gaining uncertainty ever since they left Murdoc's apartment.

"Don't you have a key, considering you live here?" Murdoc opens one eye, irritatingly endeared by the way Dalton averts his gaze. Kinship in that, too. 

"Well, yeah, but. We should knock, right?" 

"Da-- Jack, you're stalling again." 

"All right, all right."

But as he's fumbling for his keys, the door opens to MacGyver, hair charmingly sleep-tousled and the relief on his face palpable. He pushes open the door, taking in all of Jack with those sparkling garnet eyes. 

"Jack! You didn't come home last night, usually you'd call, I got--" he stops short, blinking at Murdoc, good god those eyes should  _ not  _ have the effect they do. 

"You-- you never called," MacGyver actually sounds...plaintive in that. Murdoc blinks, fighting back an ache in his chest. 

MacGyver opens the door, jerking his head to motion them inside. Murdoc stares a moment at the cast on his arm, just to the elbow. Once the door is closed he takes Murdoc in with his full gaze, and Murdoc struggles to rise to the challenge. These  _ despised _ pangs, god damn him.

"Does that matter?" 

"I got worried, yeah," MacGyver admits to that so readily, despite his recovery from a broken arm? Despite everything they were?

"You know where I live," Murdoc mutters, glancing to the kitchen. So simple still, after all his efforts. It suits the man. 

"You  _ live  _ there?" 

Murdoc manages a bitter chuckle, despite the way that cuts to the quick. Perhaps for all the homes he’d made, in graves, gusty mansions and catacombs alike, that cluttered rat-hole of an apartment that he’d never let go of was the most suited to him. Such as it is. 

Jack coughs, leaning casually on the bannister of the stairs, "Mac, don't be so judgemental. You've seen my place. Well. When I have one. So you've got a type."

MacGyver turns to Dalton, blinking slowly as if he’s just now taken in the entire context of the situation, "... did you just say type?" 

Oh God, Murdoc thinks, now he's done it--

"Uh. Yeah, so your boyfriend here --"

"I'm not his--" 

"Oh. Um --" 

"Listen, are we going to do this denial thing? Cause I'm gonna need a beer then, while we're, you know, not talking--" Jack ducks behind the fridge door. MacGyver grimaces, turns away to fiddle with the stove.

"Uh. Tea, right?" he mumbles, not looking at Murdoc as he sets on the kettle. 

"Mm."

There is a rather pregnant silence while Dalton continues to pretend to rummage in the fridge, MacGyver coming to stand opposite him, leaning on the counter without looking at him. Good god, Murdoc does have to do everything himself. Well if he  _ must.  _ He clears his throat, turns to MacGyver. Steadied by the assured outcome, bolstered by the fact that his head has  _ finally _ stopped throbbing.  

This is, rather, how it must be. 

"Alright. MacGyver, I have informed Jack Dalton of your feelings for him, and have been assured that they are reciprocated."

Problem solved, threat neutralized, MacGyver...staring at him like he'd just shot a man in front of him. Right, well--

MacGyver clears his throat, "That true, Jack?" 

Jack pops up, the snap of the beer can sharp in the silence, "Well, to be perfectly honest-- uh, yeah, it's like he said, Mac. Or uh. Is it like he said?"

"Yeah. For me too." 

Jack takes a sip of the beer, eyes flitting from the ground to MacGyver and back, "Oh that's great! Uh! Yeah!" 

"I'll just be on my way, then--" Murdoc interjects smoothly, stepping towards the door. Any longer in MacGyver's all too comfortable  _ home _ \--

"No, stay," MacGyver of all things-- reaches out and grabs his arm. Murdoc can feel his cheeks heat up even before he tugs his arm away. 

But MacGyver wants him to  _ stay,  _ that's …

... impossible, really. 

Dalton joins them, leaning jauntily against the counter, "Yeah, can't have a threesome with just two people, amiright?" 

MacGyver turns a shade of red that Murdoc would not have believed was possible. Which-- against his better judgment, does make Murdoc feel a tiny bit better. Breaks the intensity of the eye contact between them at least, as the two of them stare in disbelief at Jack. 

"Too much? Look, uh, the guy's a catch, Mac. Crazy, but, he’s got a certain something," Jack grins at Murdoc and in spite of himself, he barks out a nervous laugh. Easy to be charmed by him. But it’s MacGyver that Dalton has eyes for, hasn’t ceased taking the measure of him since he joined them. 

… the man’s braver than Murdoc gave him credit for, for certain. 

The kettle whistles, much sooner than Murdoc expected. Must have been hot before. MacGyver mumbles something he can't quite hear, busies himself getting out some mugs emblazoned with logos, the acronym NHL that Murdoc can't quite intuit. No-Homicide League, perhaps? A very pointed choice. 

Jack nudges him, mouths something that might be "let him be" for a moment while MacGyver putters about. As if Murdoc had much more to say than that. He'd been asked to stay, that was-- far more than enough improvisation for such a scene. 

But moments later, MacGyver is pushing a mug into his hands, hiding his frown behind a sip of his own. He exhales, taking in Dalton beside him. 

"Look, Jack. I--"

"Hey, don't with that face, Mac," Jack's grin falters to something forced in it's brightness, "I know I've been carrying the torch for ya for a while, but I never thought I had a shot. If you've fallen for him, I mean. I want you to be happy, yeah? Won't change too much, at the end of the day. Well. Some, but--"

"Now you're being preposterous, Dalton--" Murdoc interrupts.

"Jack--" 

"Case in point--" Oh, he can't help a smile back there, though. Especially as it seems to bolster Dalton's confidence some. 

"Hold on, now hold on," MacGyver gestures with the arm that's still in a cast, "Did you two, um-- how did you two. Get here?" 

"Bazooka guy here picked me up at a bar," Jack winks roguishly at Murdoc, who rolls his eyes.

"I was  _ trying  _ to get him to talk to  _ you _ ," he explains to MacGyver, whose face, just having begun to recover, goes red again. 

"...um."

"Okay, so he's a little ridiculous, but it seems like you weren't about to say anything to me, so--" Jack stops short, just in front of MacGyver. He takes a slow sip of the beer, "Okay. Maybe that's unfair too, if you got your own reasons for that--" 

"Aw hell, Jack-- I. It's not that I didn't want you to know, I just," he breaks off, looking thoroughly miserable. Jack catches his fingertips, so quick it looks almost instinctive, until Murdoc can see that they're both surprised by the affection. Murdoc frowns, recalling an older line.  Friendship is constant in all other things, save in the office and affairs of love.

...perhaps after all this was a thoroughly foolish notion. But did the ends not justify the means, if they were all happy? 

...both. Good god, what on Earth was Murdoc allowing himself to hope for...

"Mac. You know you can tell me anything, okay? We'll be okay?" 

Murdoc’s chest twists, half-wanting to leave, let the two of them have a moment of privacy. Who is he to witness this, Jack’s eyes just as open and guileless as when he’d kissed Murdoc mere hours before -- 

"That's just it -- when we weren't, when it all got knotted up one way or another-- if I'd told you. Losing you would be so much worse," MacGyver stares at the floor, pulls his hand away. Looks to Murdoc helplessly, but all Murdoc can see is the flashpoint sadness on Jack’s cheeks, and it freezes something in him. 

"Hence why you decided it would be easier to vent your frustrations on your enemy. I see," Murdoc chooses his words to hurt, to cut MacGyver away from him, but the man just moves closer, goddamn him. 

"God, Murdoc it's -- not like that, either. You just happened. I can't -- it's nothing like what I wanted-- what I  _ want _ from Jack, but it's still. There."

"What is?"

MacGyver runs a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling a moment, "You got under my skin, I don't know what to call it. You want me to say I'm in love with you--" 

"Not that,  _ no, _ " Murdoc winces. He’s regretting going down this road, not especially because of the agony it’s putting MacGyver through. But he seems to be gaining calm, meets Murdoc’s gaze steadily. 

"I want to understand you. And, um. I want you. That's. Best I can say about it."

Shame digs its roots into Murdoc’s stomach, sprung from the carefulness in the way MacGyver says it. As if there was so much depth to be understood, when the reality was simply -- one may smile, smile, and be a villain. He’d never held himself to more than that. 

But then, this never should have been made to be about him. Never. 

"I'm sorry."

"What?" 

"I didn't mean to force you into explaining yourself. It's not as if I could fully explain the nature of my attraction to you."

MacGyver’s face fragments beautifully on his defined cheekbones, leaning forward towards Murdoc, stopping himself short. He sighs heavily, bracing his fingers against the staircase banister. Holding himself back. Murdoc loosens his hands, realizing belatedly his fingers are digging crescents into his palm. 

"Yeah, well. I. Couldn’t make myself want either of you more than the other to matter, is the thing,” MacGyver’s face falls to lines of misery, setting the mug of tea on the counter, “I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I?”

"Mmmm, I don’t know about that?" 

The two of them turn to Jack Dalton again, Murdoc raising an eyebrow. Talk MacGyver round, what truly was it that he intended? 

...Murdoc will admit to being too knotted up in damnable emotions and half a hangover to question Jack's plan before now.  

"Listen, Mac, Mac's nemesis--" 

"My what now?"

"He called himself that--"

"It's what we are! More so than boyfriend, for certain!"

MacGyver throws up his hands for that, though he’s almost got an amused smile on his face. Jack clicks his tongue and continues. 

"Well the point is that you two are acting like it's the end of the world we all want each other -- you know how I see it we should move right on to the  _ having _ , now that it's all in the open." 

MacGyver’s eyes narrow, as if he’s reasoning through a particularly clever death trap, "Wait, so you're saying…?"

Jack gestures, his mustache quirking against his smile, "You think Murdoc is cute, I think Murdoc is cute." 

Cute. Only Jack Dalton could manage to make that sound flattering. Murdoc isn't sure if he resents MacGyvers agreement or not. Probably not. 

Dalton finishes off the beer, looks MacGyver in the eye, "I've wanted to climb you like a tree since I was old enough to know what that meant, and I guess we've been stuck in that limbo for way too long, but hey, better late than never, right?" 

For the first time since they entered MacGyver’s home, Murdoc sees a flash of that dark hunger that so often rears up in MacGyver's gaze. Only this time it's directed at Jack. 

Interesting how that's just as compelling. Perhaps even more so. 

"I'm  _ saying  _ maybe if we all of us start dating, we can keep each other from doing anything too stupid. Plus then-- no one has to be...left _ ,  _ you know?"

_ Left _ . It’s that one word that drops and settles into the disbelieving silence that follows. The implications of it had seemed like reality for Murdoc for so long now. That he’d follow Dalton here, leave off, return to his apartment alone as would be befitting an assassin, a villain, someone like him. That Jack Dalton was seeing it as possible that MacGyver would leave  _ him… _

… that he was seeing it as possible for them all to have what they wanted…

Murdoc sucks in a breath, "That is without a doubt the most incoherent notion that you could possibly have put forth. Also, perhaps, the most plausible possible option." 

“Great, uh -- Mac?”

MacGyver shakes his head, a smile growing on his lips, "You know, this is probably the best dang stupid, ridiculous scheme you've ever come up with. I could kiss you." 

"So why not?" 

Murdoc half expects MacGyver to shrink back, but the man surprises him. MacGyver begins with a wry laugh, and then moves, quick and enveloping as Murdoc is used to. Catching Dalton’s cheek, tilting his head to kiss him. At first, short and affectionate, and then, as Jack smiles back, leans in closer, with all the passion Murdoc has come to expect of him. 

It’s as good as sign as any, for Jack’s scheme, that watching them further settles Murdoc’s sense of calm. After all, at whatever point circumstances led them to realize that taking him as a lover was a mistake of an endeavor-- at least they would both be consoled. 

Jack pulls away, grinning over MacGyver’s shoulder at Murdoc, "You know, I don't know why you said he wasn't any good--" 

"I didn't say  _ that,  _ simply that the first time was terribly messy."

"Fairness to him, it was, yeah,” MacGyver looks a little bit dazed, still holding on to Jack like he’d never let him go, but his eyes meeting Murdoc’s with that haunting intensity of bullets traded for quips and elastic bands…

...good god, this proposition may very well eat him alive...

Jack nudges MacGyver knowingly, "You ought to make it up to him, you know? Fair's fair, and 'sides, I kissed him earlier just so you know." 

Then before Murdoc can react, he’s tugged in to those same arms, kissed with the same intensity he’s missed for so many weeks. It’s like sucking in a breath after a thankless soliloquy, the work is done, at  _ last _ , and there’s no name to give it except the warmth of closeness and the fervent need to rediscover every detail of his lips, his hands, hot breath on his neck…

...Murdoc pulls away, cheeks flushed. It would not do to get carried away. MacGyver squeezes his elbow, taking his hand with a palm still enveloped in a cast of Murdoc’s own machinations. Strange bedfellows indeed. 

Jack whistles, "Could get used to that." 

Murdoc isn’t sure he can, entirely, but at this moment, warmed by Jack’s grin, insistent fingers gripped tight to his -- well, there may be no name to put to his role in this, but he’ll play it out. For their sake, if not his own. 

Wherever it takes them. 

Murdoc clears his throat, breaking MacGyver’s intense gaze, "Well then. Dalton and I have had a night out together, and goodness knows I've monopolized your attentions long enough. Then, perhaps, the two of you need to do the same? Go out to dinner, perhaps?”

"Nuh-uh,” Jack shakes his head, moving closer to the both of them, “I'm not going to let you bow out like it's some kind of noble thing when you're going to go hide in that pile of dresses. Are those yours, by the way?"

"They are," MacGyver says without a hint of hesitation, taking Jack’s hand but still-- holding on to Murdoc’s. Huh. 

"Kinky. Point is, Mac and I can go out together later. We figure this out together, that's best chance we got, I figure." 

"Hmm." 

"He's got a point there,” MacGyver still hasn't let go of his hand, Murdoc still hasn’t let go of his. He's...rather comfortable here, loath as he is to admit it. 

“In truth, I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go out a second time. But dinner -- if I could borrow your kitchen, MacGyver--”

“Course. Seven? As long as you promise no redecorating.” 

There was something narratively cyclic about this, wasn't it? And MacGyver, clever as he was, knew that just as well. 

"Excellent. We never did get to enjoy much of that meal together. It will be...nice to recreate it." 

“Oh, and he cooks too? He’s a keeper, Mac, not like me, I’m trouble,” Jack shakes his head. He really does have that tendency to be self-deprecating. But before Murdoc can think of a way to parry that thought, MacGyver chimes in beside him. 

“Yeah, well, kept you all these years, haven’t I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So,” to emphasize, MacGyver squeezes his fingers, and from the way he’s studying Jack, Murdoc can tell he’s doing the same to him, “let’s see if you and your schemes can keep the both of us in the right kind of trouble.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaayyyy hope you enjoyed this wild goofy ride <3 thanks for reading, always love to hear from readers who enjoyed!


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